


This Dead Hour

by Deccaboo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-06
Updated: 2009-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:48:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deccaboo/pseuds/Deccaboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn't leave Hell untouched, his experiences are with him constantly, he can never rest, never hide, never forget. How can he cope with that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Dead Hour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elektrik_storm](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=elektrik_storm).



Dean often found it difficult to sleep in the days and the months afterward, his mind buzzed when it should have quieted, rocketing through thoughts of the day and his fear of the night and the hideous memories of a time he would rather forget. His eyes gently closed and he experienced rest for only a minute before he woke himself again with a quick shake of his head.

Dean covered up the irritating alarm clock on his end-table but it ticked on fitfully beneath his t-shirt, the hands tangled up in the fabric, becoming more distracting than it had been anyway. He huffed and fidgeted in bed, pulling the thin sheets tightly up to his chin before pushing them away, exposing his long torso in the velvet darkness and throwing his arms around himself in a strange self-consciousness.

He lay still, listening to his brother's steady, well-paced breathing and envied Sam his rest. As his eyes grew used to the darkness he could make out Sam's shape under the covers on the adjoining bed, haloed by a haze of light cast from the street lamp shining in through their window. The amber lamp made Sam's sleep-mussed hair turn auburn and his skin a healthy, holiday bronze, in spite of Sam's usual peaky colouring.

Dean turned back and lay on his stomach, his face buried in the feather-filled pillow, straining his neck and breathing in the dust of a hundred different guests before tossing the pillow to the floor, where it fell with an audible 'oof' and a flurry of several escaped feathers floated gently to the floor after stirring the still night air. Dean propped up his head in his hands and a restless scream rose into his throat and stuck there. Frustrated tears stung his eyes and he gritted his teeth so tightly he felt something give way at the back of his jaw. He violently threw himself face down on the bed, jarring his shoulders and arms in the process, and scratched at the mattress.

Dean made no impact at first, but slowly he picked a hole in the lining fabric and concentrated on that place, making the hole wider and deeper, picking out pieces of stuffing and flicking them at the dull wall. He dug down deeper into the mattress, pulling out lumps of stuffing in a frenzy of calculated destruction before catching a long finger on an exposed spring and scratching deep into the flesh.

He bit his bottom lip to keep silent and detached himself from the wire carefully, pulling his hand out of the mattress and examining the wound on the tip of his finger. Blood welled up from the wound and beaded down his finger, pooling in the palm of his hand. The blood felt cool and the wound didn't pain him as much as it had at first. Dean turned on his side, and raised his hand. He watched in fascination as the thick liquid ran in dark streams down his arm and dripped steadily into the crook of his elbow, tickling him and repulsing him all at once.

He reached back into the hole and tugged the spring free. It shined like a piece of gold in the lamplight and it didn't feel as cold as a piece of metal should. Dean pressed the sharp end of the spring against the wound in his finger and watched as more blood beaded to the surface where the first streams had already started to dry and flake. He drew patterns in the blood with the spring, curlicues of deep scarlet across his pale skin, sometimes scratching the surface of his skin beneath the pattern of blood.

Dean wrote his name on his arm in sanguinous calligraphy before breathing sharply and crossing it out, digging the point of the spring into his skin, scratching his name out of existence. He laid down the spring and wiped the blood off with his hand, tracing the scratches with an intact finger and scratching at them with his nails, concentrating on obliterating his own name and taking his bruised, wretched flesh with it.

A familiar and graceful pressure on the end of Dean's bed caused him to abandon his etchings. He looked at the figure sitting stiffly a few feet away and his hand tightened around his arm, hiding his wounds. The figure looked away towards the other bed where Sam slept on, oblivious to the activity in the bed right beside him, and then looked back at Dean, a kind, concerned expression in his soft eyes, the crinkles around the edges emphasised by the low light.

"Castiel?" Dean whispered.

The angel smiled sadly and reached out to Dean, the soft tips of his fingers grazing Dean's flesh and the room seemed to shrink until only Dean and Castiel were present. Dean could see Sam's sleeping form, reach out and touch him if he wished, but this frozen moment was theirs alone, him and the Angel, and Sam was no part of it. Sam could never know what Dean had endured to save his life, but Castiel knew and understood.

Castiel rolled up his sleeves methodically, each action well considered and measured. Dean had lived in chaos all his life, there was something simple and right about Castiel's firm hands rolling up his white shirtsleeves, glowing slightly in the darkened room. The angel moved carefully and wordlessly, touching the ravaged mattress gently as Dean watched. Castiel took Dean's hand and held it against the rough mattress. The edges unravelled as he watched, spare fibres reaching out for their kin and knitting together tightly, wrapping over and under each other like writhing serpents joining together as one whole to seal up the damage Dean had inflicted.

Dean pulled his hand away out of Castiel's grasp and the Angel's expression changed from sadness to pity. Anger rose up inside Dean's restless body and he punched out at the newly healed mattress, scratching anew at the regrown fibres and Castiel moved behind Dean, his arms and his wings encircling Dean's tired body. Dean reluctantly leaned back into the comfortable weight of Castiel's body and submitted to his gentle hands, pulling his own away from the mattress, and the play of Castiel's unseen wings against Dean's bare flesh.

Castiel pressed his lips against the nape of Dean's neck and Dean cried out in pain, in sorrow, in restlessness and frustration. He struggled against the Angel, but Castiel's strength was greater and he pulled Dean firmly against him and forced Dean to lie beside him. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and howled, screaming in frustration, the sound coming from the pit of his soul rather than his lungs. He screamed until his throat was raw, but Castiel remained solid and strong behind him, his broad hands restraining both of Dean's wrists, mouth still pressed to Dean's neck, the flutter of his slight breath turning the little hairs on Dean's neck aside.

Dean's blood still streamed from his pierced finger, it coated his sheets and skin and began to spread to Castiel's arm now, running down from Dean's hand, slick between Castiel's fingers clinging tightly to Dean's wrist and down his arm, Dean's blood matting the dark hairs on the Angel's arm. It stained Castiel's white shirtsleeve and Dean felt angry and worthless again for tainting the angel's perfect skin and clean, fresh clothing. He bucked and wriggled against Castiel's grip trying to escape the Angel and protect him from Dean's unclean skin, hands, blood.

Castiel suddenly released him and Dean tore across the room, the night air cool against his naked skin, and he threw himself flat against the wall opposite. He steadied himself with his hands and pressed his forehead against the dull wall in front of him. Dean missed the pressure of Castiel against his back, he missed the touch of the Angel's hands saving him from himself. He missed feeling alive and he missed the relief and the peace of falling asleep into dreams that didn't contain torture and the constant grind of human flesh against metal, the searing heat and the devastating cold. Dean mourned the death of his humanity, keened softly for comfort and Castiel returned with the sheet from Dean's bed and carefully wrapped him in it, gently touching Dean's skin as he folded the sheet around him and resting his chin against Dean's shoulder. The Angel leant into Dean and effortlessly lifted him into his arms, carrying him back to his bed. Dean stopped resisting, nestling his head against Castiel's collar and allowing the Angel to bear his weight as a child would to a parent.

Castiel set him down gently and touched his face. Dean grasped at the Angel's hand and held it tightly in his own, reaching out for Castiel even as the Angel let go. Castiel picked up Dean's injured hand from where it lay across Dean's chest and he brought the pierced finger to his lips. The blood coated Castiel's mouth, shining brightly on his lips and when he smiled at Dean, the colour stained right through to his teeth. Dean touched the Angel's stained lips and Castiel lowered his gaze, his long dark eyelashes shielding his bright eyes.

Dean looked at his finger and the wound had healed. He looked back at Castiel, but the Angel still looked down, demurely, his eyes not offering any explanation or clues. Dean reached out once more and traced the length of Castiel's jaw with his finger, now leaving behind only a path of stirred stubble instead of a trail of blood. He grasped Castiel's chin between finger and thumb and tried to draw the Angel's head towards his, Dean propped himself up on his elbow and moved towards Castiel, a breath's space between them when Castiel's beautiful eyes opened and he gently, but firmly pushed Dean back down on to the bed.

"Is this a dream?" Dean whispered, eyes wide in wonder, and Castiel beamed back, his eyes crinkling at the edges. The Angel touched Dean's shoulder thoughtfully, as if he were about to say something and then thought better of it. Dean settled back against the bed and reluctantly closed his eyes as Castiel raised his healed hand and firmly stroked the scratches Dean had made while he violently tore at his arm to destroy his name. Dean tried to keep his eyes open, struggled to watch Castiel as he massaged Dean's arm, but under the pleasant pressure of Castiel's ministrations, Dean finally succumbed and sleep enveloped him in its wings.

Dean awoke with a start when he heard Sam puttering about in the small bathroom next door, knocking things over in the shower and attempting to be quiet about putting them back; they were the normal morning sounds for his brother, Sam the clumsy sasquatch. It was an unwelcome awakening and the shafts of mid-morning sunlight poked intrusively into the motel room, so he turned his back on it.

Dean ran his hands over his face and felt the rough stubble on his jaw scratch unpleasantly on his hand. Everything was back in place, the pillow was tucked underneath Dean's head, his t-shirt was folded on the bedpost, rather than tossed over the alarm-clock, the deep hole in the mattress had been sealed.

The rivulets of blood that had coated Dean's arm and soaked into his sheets had been washed away returning them to their previous off-white glory. He was still pale and still extremely tired, his lack of rest making him suffer through another day, but Dean felt more peaceful as he turned on his side and nestled his head back against his pillow. He closed his eyes and stroked his arm with his long fingers, pressing his thumb against the spot where he had so violently scratched out his own name. The raised scratches remained, but as Dean explored them with his thumb and fingers, they resembled less the tortured scars of the night, and more the hollowed quill and long tapered fibres of a feather.


End file.
